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Thus did the typewriters clack through the night, until that historic document had been crafted which guaranteed for all Russians freedom of conscience (Article 13), freedom of expression (Article 14), freedom of assembly (Article 15), and freedom to have any of these rights revoked should they be “utilized to the detriment of the socialist revolution” (Article 23)!]
if a man does not master his circumstances then he is bound to be mastered by them.
Well, Fatima’s may have been shuttered, reflected the Count, but weren’t the flower shops of Paris shuttered under the “reign” of Robespierre, and didn’t that city now abound in blossoms?
For rather than being tools of self-discovery, mirrors tended to be tools of self-deceit. How many times had he watched as a young beauty turned thirty degrees before her mirror to ensure that she saw herself to the best advantage? (As if henceforth all the world would see her solely from that angle!)
“The principle here is that a new generation owes a measure of thanks to every member of the previous generation. Our elders planted fields and fought in wars; they advanced the arts and sciences, and generally made sacrifices on our behalf. So by their efforts, however humble, they have earned a measure of our gratitude and respect.”
But wait. We are ahead of ourselves. .
Non linear storytelling!
“Surely, the Bolsheviks have discovered this windfall. I wonder why it wasn’t carted off?” Nina responded with the unclouded judgment of a child. “Perhaps they need it here.” Yes, thought the Count. That is it precisely. For however decisive the Bolsheviks’ victory had been over the privileged classes on behalf of the Proletariat, they would be having banquets soon enough. Perhaps there would not be as many as there had been under the Romanovs—no autumn dances or diamond jubilees—but they were bound to celebrate something, whether the centennial of Das Kapital or the silver anniversary of
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“If only I were there and she were here,” she sighed. And there, thought the Count, was a suitable plaint for all mankind.
“Poetic concision demands the avoidance of a pair of words when a single word will suffice.” “What’s that?” “What did he say?” Several stood up with the intention of grabbing him by the collar and dragging him from the room. But before they could get their hands on him, a burly fellow in the fifth row spoke without rising to his feet. “With all due respect to poetic concision, the male of the species was endowed with a pair when a single might have sufficed.”
But he paused before the three-legged bureau and tilted his head to give its base a second look. “The Essays of Montaigne?” “Yes,” affirmed the Count. “I gather they didn’t agree with you.” “On the contrary. I found them to be the perfect height.
Hilarious
Standing in formal configuration, the Japanese and Russian delegates all wore high white collars, moustaches, bow ties, and expressions suggestive of some grand sense of accomplishment—having just concluded with the stroke of a pen the war that their likes had started in the first place.
In the Age of Bronze, when a canny few discovered the science of metallurgy, how long did it take for them to fashion coins, crowns, and swords? That unholy trinity to which the common man was enslaved for the next one thousand years.”
Presumably, the bells of the Church of the Ascension had been reclaimed by the Bolsheviks for the manufacture of artillery, thus returning them to the realm from whence they came. Though for all the Count knew, the cannons that had been salvaged from Napoleon’s retreat to make the Ascension’s bells had been forged by the French from the bells at La Rochelle; which in turn had been forged from British blunderbusses seized in the Thirty Years’ War. From bells to cannons and back again, from now until the end of time. Such is the fate of iron ore.
The Count nodded gravely to acknowledge the indisputable likelihood of children in the schoolhouse;
“It is a sad but unavoidable fact of life,” he began, “that as we age our social circles grow smaller. Whether from increased habit or diminished vigor, we suddenly find ourselves in the company of just a few familiar faces. So I view it as an incredible stroke of good fortune at this stage in my life to have found such a fine new friend.”
While the Count was smiling at his own observation, he happened to meet the willow’s gaze. As was only fitting, the two adults immediately acted as if they hadn’t seen each other, the one by turning to her puppy and the other by turning to the door.
After all, what can a first impression tell us about someone we’ve just met for a minute in the lobby of a hotel? For that matter, what can a first impression tell us about anyone? Why, no more than a chord can tell us about Beethoven, or a brushstroke about Botticelli. By their very nature, human beings are so capricious, so complex, so delightfully contradictory, that they deserve not only our consideration, but our reconsideration—and our unwavering determination to withhold our opinion until we have engaged with them in every possible setting at every possible hour.
For one, it was so much more relaxing. To be a step ahead in matters of romance requires constant vigilance. If one hopes to make a successful advance, one must be mindful of every utterance, attend to every gesture, and take note of every look. In other words, to be a step ahead in romance is exhausting. But to be a step behind? To be seduced? Why, that was a matter of leaning back in one’s chair, sipping one’s wine, and responding to a query with the very first thought that has popped into one’s head.
“Professor Lisitsky says that one must wrestle with mathematics the way that one wrestles with a bear.” “Is that so? And which species of bear are we wrestling with today? More polar than panda, I suspect.”
“Delightful conversations! I’ll have you know, dear sister, that careless seating has torn asunder the best of marriages and led to the collapse of the longest-standing détentes. In fact, if Paris had not been seated next to Helen when he dined in the court of Menelaus, there never would have been a Trojan War.”
If patience wasn’t so easily tested, then it would hardly be a virtue. . . .
As we age, we are bound to find comfort from the notion that it takes generations for a way of life to fade. We are familiar with the songs our grandparents favored, after all, even though we never danced to them ourselves. At festive holidays, the recipes we pull from the drawer are routinely decades old, and in some cases even written in the hand of a relative long since dead. And the objects in our homes? The oriental coffee tables and well-worn desks that have been handed down from generation to generation? Despite being “out of fashion,” not only do they add beauty to our daily lives,
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(Ah, Napoleon, perhaps you would never have prevailed in your quest for Mother Russia; but ten degrees warmer and at least you might have reached home with half your forces intact, instead of losing another three hundred thousand men between the gates of Moscow and the banks of the Neman River.)
History is the business of identifying momentous events from the comfort of a high-back chair.
(after all, despite its considerable size, the neck of a dragon has been known to whip about like that of an asp).
In those early years of the Soviet Union, how did the Bolsheviks countenance the idea of gilded chairs and Louis Quatorze dressers in the mansions of starlets? For that matter, how did they stomach them in their own apartments? Simple. Nailed to the bottom of every piece of fine furniture was a small copper plate embossed with a number. This number served to identify the piece as part of the vast inventory of the People. Thus, a good Bolshevik could sleep soundly in the knowledge that the mahogany bed he was lying on was not his; and despite the fact that his apartment was furnished with
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She looked toward the revolving door as if it were still spinning from the young director’s exit. “I invited him for a nightcap. He said he had an early start.” “I have never had an early start in my life,” said the Count.
In fact, so successful was the campaign to contain awareness of the crisis, when word leaked out that millions were starving in Ukraine, Walter Duranty, the lead correspondent for The New York Times in Russia (and one of the ringleaders in the Shalyapin Bar), would report that these rumors of famine were grossly exaggerated and had probably originated with anti-Soviet propagandists. Thus, the world would shrug. And even as the crime unfolded, Duranty would win the Pulitzer Prize.]
Stalin himself declared: Life has improved, comrades. Life is more joyous. . . . Yes, generally speaking such a remark falling from the lips of a statesman should be swept from the floor with the dust and the lint.
(After all, isn’t that why the pages of books are numbered? To facilitate the finding of one’s place after a reasonable interruption?)
When the tenor’s three sons displayed their fortitude by giving chase to the three different birds in three different directions, the ambassador from the Vatican advised the tenor on the proper behavior of children. The tenor, who spoke only a few words of Italian, informed the prelate (fortissimo) that he was not a man to be toyed with. The Swiss diplomat, who spoke both Russian and Italian fluently, exemplified his nation’s reputation for neutrality by listening to both men with his mouth shut.
So, was the Count “aware” of what took place in the fourth-floor corridor at a quarter to eight? One might just as well ask if Noah was aware of the Flood, or Adam the Apple. Of course he was aware.
“Well,” replied the Count, rising from his chair, “if getting to the bottom is what is called for, I am sure there is no man better suited for the job.”
“Mark my words, my friend: We have not burned Moscow to the ground for the last time.”
“Who would have imagined,” he said, “when you were sentenced to life in the Metropol all those years ago, that you had just become the luckiest man in all of Russia.”
As I’ve said to you before, we and the Americans will lead the rest of this century because we are the only nations who have learned to brush the past aside instead of bowing before it. But where they have done so in service of their beloved individualism, we are attempting to do so in service of the common good.”
A moment later, as the Count gave the brandy in his snifter a swirl, he found himself smiling at the aide-de-camp’s portrayal—which in turn led him to reflect on the personality of Americans in general. In his persuasive fashion, Osip had argued that during the Depression, Hollywood had undermined the inevitable forces of revolution by means of its elaborate chicanery. But the Count wondered if Osip didn’t have his analysis upside down. Certainly, it seemed true that glittering musicals and slapstick comedies had flourished during the 1930s in America. But so too had jazz and skyscrapers. Were
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“I guess the point I’m trying to make is that as a species we’re just no good at writing obituaries. We don’t know how a man or his achievements will be perceived three generations from now, any more than we know what his great-great-grandchildren will be having for breakfast on a Tuesday in March. Because when Fate hands something down to posterity, it does so behind its back.”
“Perhaps it is a matter of celestial balance,” he reflected. “A sort of cosmic equilibrium. Perhaps the aggregate experience of Time is a constant and thus for our children to establish such vivid impressions of this particular June, we must relinquish our claims upon it.” “So that they might remember, we must forget,” Vasily summed up.
“I suppose a room is the summation of all that has happened inside it.” “Yes, I think it is,” agreed the Count. “And though I’m not exactly sure what has come of all the intermingling in this particular room, I am fairly certain that the world has been a better place because of it.”
Some might wonder that the two men should consider themselves to be old friends having only known each other for four years; but the tenure of friendships has never been governed by the passage of time.
“One must make ends meet,” confirmed Audrius matter-of-factly, “or meet one’s end.”
Surely, the span of time between the placing of an order and the arrival of appetizers is one of the most perilous in all human interaction.
“Since the war, relations between our countries may not have been especially chummy, but they have been predictable. We launch the Marshall Plan, you launch the Molotov Plan. We form NATO; you form the Cominform. We develop an atom bomb, you develop an atom bomb. It’s been like a game of tennis—which is not only a good form of exercise, but awfully entertaining to watch. Vodka?”
But Moscow is not a port, my love. At the center of all that is Russia—of its culture, its psychology, and perhaps, its destiny—stands the Kremlin, a walled fortress a thousand years old and four hundred miles from sea. Physically speaking, its walls are no longer high enough to fend off attack; and yet, they still cast a shadow across the entire country.”
“I’ll tell you what is convenient,” he said after a moment. “To sleep until noon and have someone bring you your breakfast on a tray. To cancel an appointment at the very last minute. To keep a carriage waiting at the door of one party, so that on a moment’s notice it can whisk you away to another. To sidestep marriage in your youth and put off having children altogether. These are the greatest of conveniences, Anushka—and at one time, I had them all. But in the end, it has been the inconveniences that have mattered to me most.”
Preparing for a potential celebration is a tricky business. If Fortune smiles, then one must be ready to hit the ceiling with the cork. But if Fortune shrugs, then one must be prepared to act as if this were just another night, one of no particular consequence—and then later sink the unopened bottle to the bottom of the sea.
For it is the role of the parent to express his concerns and then take three steps back. Not one, mind you, not two, but three. Or maybe four. (But by no means five.) Yes, a parent should share his hesitations and then take three or four steps back, so that the child can make a decision by herself—even when that decision may lead to disappointment.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” Katerina looked surprised at first by the Count’s offer, then ready to dismiss it. But after a moment, she said: “Remember him.”
In particular, he was thinking—with a sense of foreboding—that in the course of twenty years this firefly, this pinwheel, this wonder of the world had become a woman who, when asked where she was going, could answer without the slightest hesitation: Does it matter?
